Depth Perception
by Tinhen
Summary: AUpast-fic: 1957 is waning and thirty-six-year-old Lorelai Ethne Gilmore is watching her marriage go down with the year. What's a Gilmore girl to do? Why, something incredibly stupid, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Robinson.


Depth Perception

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Chapter One of two

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Summary: AU/past-fic: 1957 is waning and thirty-six-year-old Lorelai Ethne Gilmore is watching her marriage go down with the year. What's a Gilmore girl to do? Why, something incredibly stupid, of course.

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Author's Note: Oh, look. She writes another period piece. But this one is only AU in certain events concerning Richard Gilmore's father. 

*

December 1957

Hartford, Connecticut

"That Lorelai Gilmore! I just don't see how she does it!" Evelyn Sandler squeaked, watching the stately auburn-haired woman in question examine herself in the mirror. She was trying out a gossamer scarf in a very flattering lavender hue, checking to see if it did indeed compliment her coloring. Across the department floor at a different counter, a small group of society ladies was gathered, watching her examinations.

Blonde-to-the-bone Beatrice Allman clicked her tongue. "What, how she maintains that perfection? Especially since-- oh, darling, did you hear about her husband?" She asked the third woman in their cluster, Kathleen DuGrey.

"Hear what?" Kathleen asked, eyebrows raised. "I tell you, I've been perfectly closed off from all this good gossip since I've been off in Bermuda. Not that the sun wasn't wonderful for my complexion-- don't you think this tan looks marvelous on me? But, anyway, no one even bothered to telephone me and let me in on what was happening back home." She affected an overly dramatic pose just as Lorelai Gilmore opted against the lavender scarf in favor of a pale sage green one.

Beatrice and Evelyn shared a look and each took one of Kathleen's arms to lead her away from the fragrance counter they had been standing at. Kathleen barely had time to return the bottle of Chanel No. 5 to its glass tray before she was five feet away. "They're divorcing, you know," Beatrice said in a stage whisper.

"No!" Kathleen exclaimed, string openmouthed at her two catty friends.

"Yes. Now as to why, we haven't yet heard, but hear you me, we will," Evelyn said, nodding to punctuate each phrase.

"I can't believe it," Kathleen said, raising a gloved hand to her mouth. "I mean, Nathaniel and Lorelai Gilmore, it's almost considered to be one word. The pillars of our society. Divorcing." She shook her head carefully, so as not to disturb her perfect blonde curls. "It doesn't seem right. . ."

Beatrice fingered the pearls at her neck nervously and nodded. "I told Martin not to get any ideas, but I don't think I've got anything to worry about, really." She got a silly, fiendish look in her eye and leaned forward. "I keep him happy if you know what I mean," she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Evelyn and Kathleen giggled behind their gloved hands, but Evelyn eventually changed the subject back to Lorelai. "Dora Cleveland said that it was something he did and she filed first thing in the morning." The three women shared a look. "I don't know what a charming man like Nate Gilmore could possibly do to make his wife divorce him."

"Perhaps he's-- ahem-- too charming. You never know with those war veteran types," Beatrice said, biting her lower lip. Evelyn looked at her strangely; her husband had fought in France right along with Nate Gilmore. "You know, being on base with no female interaction for months at a time. . ."

Evelyn snorted and indignantly shifted her pocketbook from one hand to the other. "Oh, you are a naïve little thing, Beatrice," she said. "They had plenty-- what did you call it? Oh, right-- *female attraction*. They had more than they could stand, I imagine." Her voice dropped at least three octaves and her friends had to lean in very close to hear her next words. "An American serviceman would be a wonderful thing indeed to the poor girl living in Occupied France. You're lucky that your husband didn't have to fight, Cathy."

Kathleen smiled reluctantly. "Oh, Christophe had a time getting out of it, rest assured, Evie," she told her. "But fact is, his company was necessary for the war effort and he was more useful here." She smiled. "And, remember, if Christophe had gone to war, Janlen would have ended up an only child." Beatrice and Evelyn had to laugh at Kathleen's story.

Across the department, Lorelai Gilmore paid for the sage green scarf, smiling broadly at the pretty blonde clerk at the register. The three gossipmongers did not notice as Lorelai Gilmore left the store, walk to her Jaguar and start the engine. In fact, by the time their petty argument about a war twelve years past was done (Evelyn having won and Kathleen having not participated) and they realized she was gone, she had probably gotten home. 

*

The sad reality was that what Kathleen DuGrey heard from Evelyn Sandler and Beatrice Allman wasn't too far from the truth. Lorelai sat down on the lovely little duvet in her parlor, the green scarf and a pair of black kidskin gloves on the coffee table in front of her. Beside her purchases were two small cardboard boxes and a roll of shiny red ribbon. As she lifted the scarf and examined its filmy material in the light filtering in through the window behind her, she had to choke back a tear or two. She shook her head and blink resolutely. The scarf was lovely and it passed her inspection, deemed good enough to be a present for a close friend.

She opened one of the boxes and unfolded the two leaves of white tissue paper inside. She carefully arranged the gossamer scarf into a presentable little square, folded over so many times it became completely opaque and its color a not-so-lovely pea green, and lowered it down into the tissue. She tucked the loose corners down and replaced the lid. All the while, she did not so much focus on her task of wrapping a present for her dearest female friend, but instead on not crying. She was disappointed in herself. She wasn't one to cry, ever. It wasn't really part of her demeanor. What her mother would say if she could see her trying to stay composed! Why, Lorelai would be simply laughed straight out of the house!

She sniffed and opened the second box, unfolding the baby blue tissue inside. She picked one of the gloves up, a fine man's glove. The pair had been terribly expensive, especially since they were for her husband and she had rather recently come up with the opinion that no man-- especially one like Nate Gilmore-- was a worthy subject for such a fine gift. Her only consolation was the knowledge she had bought the gloves for Nate with Nate's money. That way, it wasn't really affecting her at all.

Once the gloves were closed up in their box, she picked up the ribbon and unraveled about two feet, estimating that length was quite sufficient to make a proper bow for a Christmas present. Then she realized she hadn't brought any scissors over to cut the ribbon with and she sighed. 

"Margaret!" she called to the maid. A moment later, a young woman in a black and white uniform appeared in the parlor doorway.

"Yes, Mrs. Gilmore?" she asked, smiling dutifully. 

Lorelai did not look up from the ribbon she had stretched out across the table. "I seem to have forgotten a pair of scissors and we both know wrapping a present is impossible without them. Could you go fetch the kitchen pair for me?"

Margaret nodded. "Of course, Mrs. Gilmore," she said. She bowed from the room and about a minute later returned with the heavy steel scissors. She crossed the parlor to Lorelai's duvet in a scant five steps and handed them to her employer the proper way with the blades pointed toward herself. "I'm sorry it took me a moment; Cook didn't put them back where they usually go last time she used them so I had to look around."

"Oh, yes, yes," Lorelai said absently. She hadn't noticed any extended absence on the maid's part. "Thank you," she told her.

Nodding again, Margaret backed up. "Would you like anything else?"

Lorelai contemplated asking for a scotch, but reasoned that she was perfectly capable of standing up, walking four paces to her left, and pouring it herself. A scotch did seem like quite a good idea at that moment. "No, Margaret. I think that will be all for now." She glanced up at the maid, who turned to go. "Oh, wait. Did Mr. Gilmore phone while I was out? I wonder if he'll be home for dinner with Richard and I, or if I should just have Cook wrap up his and save the trouble of setting it out."

"No, sorry Mrs. Gilmore," Margaret said regretfully. She knew about the strain in the marriage, although she had already left for the night two weeks earlier when the Gilmores had their screaming match. Thankfully, eleven-year-old Richard had been spending that night at a friend's house. "Dora Cleveland did call, though, about a New Year's party."

"Oh, I do hope you didn't give her an answer. That woman is unbearable," Lorelai said with not a little malice. 

Margaret shook her head. "Oh, no. I just told her you were out and that she would have to call back tomorrow."

"I don't know if I would like to go or not," Lorelai said truthfully as she cut the ribbon for the first package. She set the scissors down with a heavy clunk and looked up at Margaret's face with narrowed eyes. "It's expected of Nate and I to go, of course. But I don't want to be frozen in smiles I don't mean for an entire night, only to start 1958 off with a kiss to a man who doesn't love me anymore. And I absolutely do not want to wear a stuffy party dress!" Margaret did not reply for a moment, shocked at her employer's unexpected honesty. Lorelai glanced up at her and shook her head, then looked down to attempt to tie the ribbon into an elaborate bow. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "I don't really want to involve you in this wretched situation. It's my own bed, I suppose, although I most certainly did not make it and I don't wish to lie in it. I don't see why I should have to put up with Nate's mistakes simply because I am his wife. If that's a bit too liberal-progressive of me, so be it."

She sighed heavily and handed the slightly bent ribbon to Margaret to tie, having failed at it herself. Margaret tied it perfectly, her lips pressed together. She didn't know what Lorelai wanted her to say in reply to her outburst. Lorelai didn't really know, either. Instead, she cut off another length of the ribbon and traded the untied for the lovely bow. She attached it to the box with the scarf in it without a word and Margaret tied the second piece of ribbon silently.

"Thank you, Margaret," Lorelai told the maid a minute later, both packages finished and looking very elegant. She looked weary as far as Margaret could tell, and everyone knows that is never a good thing. She touched her fingertips to her temple. "You know what, would you please tell anyone who calls for me that I've got a headache. I'm not really up to talking to anyone right now."

"Of course, Mrs. Gilmore." With that, Margaret left the room feeling very strange. It would be the only time Lorelai Gilmore would ever become a real human being in her presence, and many years later she would look back on that moment and shake her head in wonderment.

After the maid left, Lorelai picked the packages up and left the room. She delivered the boxes to their proper place under the Christmas tree in the sitting room, then sighed and ascended the staircase to lie down in her room.

*

Richard Gilmore was a happy boy, or about as happy as he could be growing up in the moderately stuffy upper-crust environment that Hartford was. He had a bright future ahead of him certainly, his parents were relatively normal as far as parents went, and he had plenty of friends to play with.

However, Christmas morning was not so joyous an occasion for him. It was well past eleven o'clock and he was still the only one downstairs. His mother had retired early every night for the past week and had not emerged from her bedroom until the morning was half over. He had only seen his father a few times. He had opened his presents slowly and methodically, stopping every few minutes to listen intently at the staircase for any sign of life from the upper floors, but there was never anything. It wasn't long before everything for him was unwrapped and arranged carefully on the floor and he was still sitting on his father's upholstered footstool all alone.

He got up and went into the empty kitchen, since Margaret and Cook had Christmas day off, and opened the Frigidaire in hopes Cook had left him something worth eating. As expected, there was an enamelware pan with Julienne potatoes and a three-by-five card of oven usage instructions waiting for him, not to mention a half-full bottle of yesterday's milk and a loaf of wheat bread for toast.

He preheated the oven and plugged in the toaster. There was an awful lot of waiting involved in cooking, he decided, but at least it was something to get his mind off the fact he was the only one conscious in his house. He carefully spread a little bit of butter on one side of two slices of bread, sprinkled a tiny bit of sugar and cinnamon on them, then lowered them carefully into the toaster and pressed the lever down. He whistled a nonsense tune to himself and poured a glass of milk.

The oven was hot enough to put the potatoes in about the time the toast popped up. He nearly burned himself in moving the hot toast from toaster to plate, although once the two slices were laid out, he sprinkled more sugar and cinnamon on them and greedily bit a corner off one of them.

Twenty-five minutes later saw him in the dining room, setting out three places for his family. He put the silverware down wrong but at least he tried, and he put alcohol tumblers out instead of water glasses. He didn't use potholders to carry the hot potato pan from the oven to the table, but rather carried it over on a cookie sheet like a tray. He made more toast and arranged it artfully on a platter better used for a roast, but all in all, he did a pretty good job. He sat down at his customary spot, but just as he was about to take a bite of the cheesy potatoes, it occurred to him that no little boy should eat Christmas brunch alone. He had put such a lot of effort into the morning and the only thing missing was his parents.

He set his fork down and stood up, folding his napkin and resting it to the left of his plate. He cocked his head to the side and listened in hopes of hearing one of them come downstairs, but by that pointy he wasn't deluding himself and he didn't really expect anything. His Christmas was pretty much ruined to that point.

He bit his lip and left the dining room. He ran his hand along the couch back as he crossed through the parlor. The fabric was velour from before the war, worn perfectly in certain places. His mother desperately wanted to replace it with a more stylish updated specimen, but the couch had been Nate's dear departed mother's and he couldn't bear to part with it. Dora Cleveland clicked her tongue at it every time she was over.

Richard took the stairs two at a time, completely innocent and completely unprepared when he pushed his parents' bedroom door open to find his mother curled up in a tiny little ball at the farthest corner of her little cornflower blue settee. She wasn't wearing her customary skirt and sweater outfit, rather a pair of twill trousers and a rumpled blue shirt that certainly belonged to his father. She had her knees against her chest and she clutched a large handkerchief as though it was her only lifeline to the rest of the world.

The strangest thing of it was that she wasn't crying at all, just sitting there cramped up and invisible, her gray eyes hollowed out. Richard stood in the doorway staring at her, unable to fathom what could have put his usually vibrant mother into such a blank, apathetic state. She looked up at him but didn't beckon him closer, merely observing her son and musing on how much he looked like his father even though he had her eyes.

"Mother?" he asked a moment later, blinking finally. He glanced around the immaculately kept room, wondering where the human factor came into it but any evidence to point to anyone actually inhabiting the room was well hidden. The vanity in the corner to his mother's left had several small boxes on top of it but there were no bottles of perfume out, no tubes of lipstick and no powder compacts. There wasn't even a comb or a brush in sight. It was simply a cavernous room with a few sticks of retro furniture and a nice shaggy white carpet in the middle.

She offered him a weak smile. "Merry Christmas," she said in a voice strong enough to shock herself. So much for expecting a hitch. He tipped his head to the side, giving her a curious look.

"Where's Father?" he asked, taking a step over the threshold but not venturing any closer.

Lorelai sighed, relaxing her thigh muscles and placing her stocking feet on the floor. "Richard, come here," she said. He nodded and approached the settee and stopped in front of her. She patted the seat next to her. "Sit down. I need to sit with someone."

"Yes, mother," he said, reeling because he'd never sat in his parents' room before, alone, with one of them, or alone even though one of them was in the room. In recent months it had seemed almost that his father wasn't even there behind his own eyes even though he was still breathing and walking. Richard was still too young to realize that a soul doesn't make a person.

"Richard, your father won't be home for a few days," she said. She pressed her lips together tightly and closed her eyes. "He has found something else that he would rather spend the season with, a new passion." Richard felt a strange iciness creep down the back of his neck. Her voice was so detached.

"Okay," he said. She reached her right hand over and took his. He searched the room desperately for some sign that his father still belonged there but found none, not knowing that his mother had done the same thing a million times since Nate had sat her down on that settee and forced her to listen to him tell her something she hadn't ever wanted to hear. She hadn't meant to stumble on evidence of that "new passion," and even though she was relieved in a way afterwards that she had because a divorce would allow her to conserve a modicum of her sanity, albeit with most dignity forgotten. She had still cried a little, still mourned the loss of something pretty and warm. The fact remained that perhaps Nate had expunged all of the him from their house years before Lorelai was any wiser to it and that it had all been one fantastic charade for a very long time.

"Did you open your presents?" she asked.

"Yes," Richard replied. "Thank you for the Flyer and the record. And the hat, too. Timmy and Vince will be real jealous." His voice would have been somewhat more animated if she had asked him what he thought about that before she shed light on his father's absence.

"I suppose we should go figure something out to eat, then," Lorelai said, standing up and straightening her clothes. She folded her handkerchief up and stuck it in her pocket.

Richard started. "Oh, I did that," he said, realizing he had completely forgotten about the potatoes and toast downstairs, probably cold by then. She gave him a curious look. "Cook left a pan of Julienne potatoes and I made cinnamon toast. That's why I came up here in the first place. You know. Didn't feel right eating Christmas breakfast alone."

Lorelai smiled at her son's thoughtfulness. "Well, then," she said. "Shall we go make an attempt on that food?"

Later, when they were rinsing off their plates together, she would realize just how final it seemed that there was an clean plate and an empty place setting at the head of the table. And she would be so surprised how little sadness she really felt towards the observation.

----chapter finis

This was originally supposed to be all one chapter, but being that it's more than 8000 words long in all, I decided that it would do well to be split in half. It's not entirely complete, the fifth and final scene still in progress, so don't expect a new chapter in a week. Just be on the lookout. 

This chapter is actually all set up. The plot happens in the next one.

Tinuviel Henneth / Written September 2003


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